When You're Good to Audrey II He Ain't Good to You
by fssxx
Summary: !SPOILERS! AU fic where Roxie helped Seymour feed people to the Audrey II plant for their love to stay strong and happy. The plant is unleshed on mankind, and an emergency evacuation order is issued to all humand on Earth. Everyone is relocated to nearby oxygen-less planet Schkidrowgo, and Roxie dies.
1. Chapter 1

When You're Good to Audrey II…

**Author's Note: **This is a new fic, of course, and my first - that is to say, I'm entirely new to this genre of writing and I hope it passes the ''_test_''. Reviews are always appreciated!

BRIF SYNOPSIS (**SPOILERS!**): This is a Little Shop/Chicago crossover; Roxie Hart's point of view. After being starstruck partner in crime with Seymour Krelborn, Roxie is locked up in jail for unleashing a carnivorous plant on mankind. Planet Earth is evacuated to an oxygen-less planet nearby named Schkidrowgo. Citicenz breathe through Wireless OxyShare (Woxy), tubes inserted in nostrils to exude clean oxygen. No sound cand be heard, however, and citizens are forced to communicate through writing and texting only.

**To make myself clear:** this is a very sci-fi type story, that is to say, please do not say things like, ''Really? They breathe through tubes that give oxygen? And where exactly does this _free unlimited oxygen_ come from?'' Because this story is not about accuracy, it's about imagination!

**Disclaimer: I own neither Chicago nor Little Shop of Horrors**.

1.  
I come to around seven. Sprawled on my stomach on the cold, hard ground of my prison cell, I look around. A sink with a leaky faucet; I suppose it must be rhythmically clinking, but I don't hear a sound. A wooden bed with no mattress and a small grey wool blanket; the floor is more inviting to me. A metal door with a small barred window and a fat metal lock, dangling open - there's nowhere to go anyways. My God, everything is cold in here.  
I play around with the little cross around my neck, thinking about how I got here, singing rather loudly. No sound comes out of my mouth, but I can hear myself in my head. It's been about a month since I last heard anything.  
I'm not deaf or anything. I'm just living, like everyone else on this planet, off Wireless OxyShare.  
Ahh, Woxy. You rescued us from death to deliver us to worse. The only music I hear is inside my head now. I'm homeless, jobless, and locked up in prison, sentenced to death about a month from now.  
Why is the entire portion of cooperative and hopeful human beings living on an oxygen-less planet called Schkidrowgo? Why am I in prison? The answers to those two fateful questions go hand in hand.  
Seymour, darling... You know what happened. You were what happened. You fed all those people to that horrible plant to get my attention. All that inhumanity for my love. It was terrible what you did, Seymour, but you still have my undivided affection.  
"He only knows half the story," says a little part of me. It's true; Seymour was only there to see a part of the story. He died shortly after, in my arms, in the back of the last police shuttle. Judged an unnecessary weight to the vessel, the cops chose to dump him in the cold emptiness of space.  
But between his injury and his death, he was unconscious for three or so hours. He wasn't there, for example, during the emergency evacuation order. He wasn't there when humankind was separated until an unforeseeable reunion that could very well never happen at all. No… Seymour was not there for the most important part of the story.  
I think it's about time I make myself clear about certain things.

**Post-Scriptum:** Please review, again, and I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Chapter 2 will be out in a few minutes, I realize it's not much to on from.


	2. Chapter 2

2.  
Downtown Chicago, May 17th, 2532. The kind of technology we could only dream of a century ago was at the tip of our fingers, yet times were bad. Uptown Chicago was where all the wealthy people lived on their vast estates, rich and happy, but afraid, too. I think everyone Downtown would have loved to have a shot at getting away and spending their lives rolling around in piles of gold, bossing around young servants and the occasional lady. Even just to leave Skid Row for something slightly-not-as-bad would be a blessing.  
Down here in Loserville we all had our little fantasies, our unimportant dreams we liked to cling to when things got bad. I had always wanted to be one if those glamorous jazz dancers I saw when I could momentarily afford a visit at the only nightclub we had, Buzz Club. The place was worn down from near-constant partying. The bartender had shifty eyes and the only sound you could get out of him was a grunt when he was wasted and the occasional sneeze; otherwise, he kept to himself.  
One night, I had a particularly embarrassing audition at a jazz ballroom. I had been crying all evening, afraid of my unpromising future, and my throat was sore from sobbing. I sang and danced with everything I had left. One foot ahead the other. One note above the other. As I drew breath for my final note, I collapsed on the stage in a faint of absolute exhaustion. The men I was auditioning for brought me to a nearby hospital, but not without trying to abuse me.  
When the doctors released me with a mug of tepid coffee, I sat down on the sidewalk and cried myself half to sleep. That's when someone took my hand and helped me up, walking me into a warm shop, then let me sleep on the floor with several blankets and a pillow.  
Waking up with the sun, I found myself in a florist's boutique. The man who brought me in had laid me down next to the roses, and there he was, at the cashier, opening up the store for the day.  
I got up and folded my blankets around my pillow. As I walked up to my benefactor to mumble my gratitude, he looked up.  
Head to toe, he was covered in ashes, his expression disheveled… and yet he did not look unclean. He had short, brown hair and broken glasses perched awkwardly on his freckled nose. He wasn't much taller than me, either.  
"Good morning," he said. "Are you feeling better?"  
"I - I really can't thank you enough…" I chocked. "I'm really sorry for the trouble."  
"Oh, no, don't worry. It was my pleasure."  
For maybe two and a half seconds I doubted his motives beneath the odd turn of phrase - but this man was polite, benign. He looked young, innocent even.  
"I'm Roxie. Roxie Hart," I said.  
"Seymour Krelborn. I work here, I work for Mushnik."  
Seymour walked around the counter and proceeded to the front door after looking fleetingly at me. He flipped over a "Yes, We're Open" sign in the glass door and turned to face me.  
"Roxie, do you have anywhere to go where you'd be welcome right now?"  
Did he want me out?  
"Um - yes… yes, I, er -"  
Seymour looked at me through his askew glasses.  
"You don't, do you?"  
I shake me head subtly. Up to that point I had lived in my dentist ex-boyfriend's flat. On the nights I didn't show up, he'd get drunk at the Buzz Club, bring home some girl, and yell at me the next day.  
"You can stay here as long as you like. Skid Row's no place to stay alone."  
"Thanks," I mumbled. "I have nowhere else to stay."  
Seymour nodded. A short pause stretched out into minutes of silence, interrupted only be the noise of gradually thickening traffic outside the shop.  
"You're pretty," he said quietly. "I never know what to say to girls like you."  
"Girls like me?"  
"No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"  
"That's okay. I know what you meant."  
And then all I knew was that I loved Seymour.


End file.
